On Sunday at noon, I was dressed up, with a flower in my hair, standing in front of a Rousseau painting at the Museum of Modern Art, looking for a well-dressed stranger. I’d been set up on a blind date.
I was to meet the stranger, Mr. X, in front of The Dream. A winky, fitting beginning for a mysterious rendez-vous.
I spotted him before he spotted me, and walked slowly past him, giving him the chance to speak first. “Hello,” he said, “were you checking out the Rousseau?” I said that I was. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. He was handsome, impeccably dressed, and polite.
After strolling past some priceless works of art, we headed out to a bar nearby. On the way, he suggested we take a picture together in front of the Robert Indiana LOVE sculpture; I obliged. As we walked on, I learned that he was in his early 40s, worked for a prestigious company, spoke several languages and had attended a well-respected Ivy League university. Over gin and tonics, he was flattering: “You’re stunning,” he insisted. I laughed and said I was terrible at taking compliments. He asked me what I thought of him; I said, “Your picture ought to be in the dictionary under the phrase ‘a catch.'” He picked up his phone and asked me for my number, so that he could forward the sculpture photo. And then he said, “I’ll send you something else, too.” And then he said he was going to the restroom, but I should take a look at my phone and see what he’d sent. “Oh, no,” I said, with something like dread curling in my guts.
He left the table.
I picked up my phone.
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